Inspiration
by T-c3
Summary: The Joker, before he was known as such, wanted a new look, a new name. Lucky for him that the circus was in town. Joker's POV


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

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The scars never bothered me. I'm quite _fond_ them. They're like a badge of honor, a way to stand out in the crowd. Being like everyone else is _boring_. I love how people stare. Oh! Just take this man! He's _suspicious_ of me. Maybe I'll mug him, or better yet, kill him. I won't give him any _hints_. I love how they all whisper and shrink back in fear. Who _am_ I to them? What must I _look_ like? Even before the make-up—the _war paint_, as some call it—people have gawked at me. So much attention! It brings a smile to my forever _smiling_ face.

I can't remember how I got these scars. Doesn't matter. My past began fading years and years and _years_ ago. Even my own name would slip my mind sometimes. Ah, I hated that name anyway. I can't remember it now _at all_, but I do _know_ I hated it. Too _ordinary_. I wanted to give myself a _new_ name, one I didn't have to _share_ with other people.

Oh, oh! I remember the poster on the brick wall. The circus was in town. I'd never been to one, I think. There was a clown in the lower corner, _forever smiling_. It gave me _so_ many ideas. Ideas buzzing in my skull!

I decided to try something out, so I went to the nearest costume shop. Strange little sho_p_. I wasn't stared at as much in there. They would say the freak doesn't _stand out_ among the freaks. I found the face paint, but I didn't really know what I was looking for. Then there was some white greasepaint. Every clown had a white face, right?

I went home after that. Did I mention my mother? Such a stuck-up, _irritating_ woman. It was the money that made her that way. She hit it big and _WAM_! Just oh-so-obnoxious from then on. My father? Well, who knows where _he_ went.

I remember experimenting with the make-up. My face, ghostly white. I looked _dead_. I took my mother's bright red lipstick and smudged it onto my lips and up my scars. That clown's image was _burned_ into my head. The eyes needed something. Some eye shadow? Nope. Too _light_. Ah, the mascara was pure _black_. It suited my dark sense of humor. I loved how it looked, menacing and fascinated all _rolled_ into one.

But my hair? It didn't fit with my new look. It was starting to get long. I didn't get it cut because I knew how much my mother _hated_ it. She didn't like much about me. Didn't get me, didn't think I was _funny_. She needed to _smile_ more. She only did when she was drunk. A happy drunk, but an _annoying_ drunk. She wasn't good for much. Hmm, my hair . . . Oh, yes. I went back to the costume shop to get some dye. I sported my new look on the streets wearing my _favorite_ purple coat. I wonder what happened to it? Ah! A man tried to light me on fire once. That's right! _Ruined_ my favorite coat, so I _ruined_ his face. Oh, the people on the streets gave me such _wonderful_ reactions. I stood out so much that they didn't even bother trying to be discrete about their stares. A few children seemed to _like_ it, though. They smiled and waved at me. A_mu_sing. I waved back and laughed when their parents, so _horrified_, shielded them and ran off.

In the shop, though, I stood out _too_ much that time. I got more funny reactions. The clerk didn't even _recognize_ me. I picked up green hair dye. That clown had green hair, and green went well with purple, didn'_t_ it? I laughed and threw bills at the clerk. I felt so _alive_!

I dyed my hair in the bathroom sink. Didn't stand out all that much, but I could see it when the light hit it just right. Now my look was com_plete_.

I wonder what clowns do in the circus to make people laugh? Pies to the face? Water that squirts out of plastic flowers? So _boring_! I prefer explosives and maybe some knife throwing. That sounds like _fun_! Maybe strap a person to a large piece of wood and put little bombs around them. Aim for the bombs and watch limbs _fly_! Ooooh, I want to try that now!

Right, back to the _story_. I heard my mother come home, stumbling through the front door. Just a bit _tipsy_. Surprise, surprise. When she saw me coming down the stairs, she yelped. Probably thought I was a robber.

I laughed and said, "It's just _me_."

It took her a moment to find her voice. "W-what the hell? What are you—"

"Shush, shush, shush." I walked up to her, _swaying_ a bit from giddiness. "You won't have to worry about it _any_more. You see," I said, holding my arms out wide, "I feel like I've broken out of my shell. I'd say it's about time to leave the _nest_, don't you?"

She _tripped_ over her words before shrieking, "What are you talking about? You look completely ridiculous! Is this a joke?"

"No joke," I replied, waving a finger in front of her face. "I'm leaving tonight. It's not as though I had a lot of _packing_ to do."

"You're not going anywhere!"

She reached out to grab my arm, but I dodged and grabbed hers instead. Suddenly, I pulled a _knife_ out from my pocket and held it to her face. My mother froze, eyes wide with that _delightful_ fear.

"You have _no right_ to tell me what to do," I hissed, glaring at her. Then I abruptly smiled, my giddiness returning, and I put the blade in her mouth. "Do _you_ remember how I got these scars?"

She was too _petrified_ to speak.

"No? Well, that's fine. I prefer to come up with my _own_ story anyway."

After waiting a moment longer, soaking in the fear she was giving off, I released her and headed towards the door.

"Wait . . . you . . . "

I stopped and peered over my shoulder.

Bravery flashed in those eyes, and she shouted, "I will _not_ have a joker for a son!"

Cocking my head, I turned around to face my mother. Then I burst out laughing. It was _per_fect! I _was_ quite fond of playing jokes on people, after all. But how ironic that my mother should give me my new name. I had to give her a _thank you gift_.

I strode up to the woman, grabbed hold of her face, and asked, "How can the _dead_ have a son?" I sliced her face open, laughing maniacally as she screamed, the blood getting on my hands. She collapsed to the floor, still _shrieking_ in pain, but I simply turned around and walked out the door.

The past doesn't _really_ matter; it never mattered. I make it up when the time calls for it. I'll be whatever I have to be to survive, to _blend in_ when necessary. And a little killing here or a little exploding there doesn't hurt. All I want is to have _fun_.

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A/N: Because he can't remember anything of his past, this is just another story he made up for his own entertainment. Oh, and I've never written in his POV before, so constructive criticism is welcome. I wanted to write this as a sort of challenge for myself, and I'm really not sure if I got his voice down pat. Any advice would be helpful.


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